


this feelin' flows both ways

by perfect_little_fool



Series: however many times it takes (to get this right) [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, F/M, Light masturbation, Mando's POV, POV Third Person, Pining, basically everything Mando WANTS but doesn't HAVE, edging if you squint, fantasies, touch-starved mando
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28785138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfect_little_fool/pseuds/perfect_little_fool
Summary: Despite his reservation in the shower, intrigue bubbles to the surface. His mouth feels dry. The idea of her blindfolded, lost of a sense while his helmet is off—he has to clench his jaw to stop what starts to twist about inside him.Finally, he musters some kind of courage to respond. “What?” he asks, realizing his voice is covered in black sand.She hesitates, but not for long. “You could—you could blindfold me. That way you can take off your helmet, your gloves, anything. I won’t be able to see and we won’t have to worry about it.”(or, the hotel scene where you let him blindfold you, but from Mando's perspective.)
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian/Reader, The Mandalorian/You
Series: however many times it takes (to get this right) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099844
Comments: 9
Kudos: 154





	this feelin' flows both ways

**Author's Note:**

> song used for title: “Do I Wanna Know” by Arctic Monkeys
> 
> well...guess this verse is going to continue. I have tentative ideas for future installments that may or may not come to fruition, but in the meantime here’s a part of _love the way you wear that_ from Mando’s POV. IT HAD TO BE DONE OKAY 
> 
> (also - you'll probably want to read part 1 to this series before this. especially since more will ... hopefully come)

“Hey, at least we’ll sleep on a real bed for the first time in weeks, eh?”

The question she posed is jarring, to say the least, and Mando finds it hard to stop the clenching of his fist at his side. He struggles between the idea of her pressed into a soft mattress beside him and wanting to correct—he actually hasn’t slept on a real bed in who knows how long. He stopped keeping track long ago.

Either way, he decides to just not respond to her lighthearted remark. He had suspicions that they would be on Tatooine for a spell while the Crest gets repaired, he just didn’t expect a _whole day_. He even tried to heartily tip the men who accepted the work, but they turned it away while informing him it wouldn’t help them work faster. So Mando’s resigned to admit his trio is stuck on this dry, infested planet for an entire night. 

Dank farrik.

He starts walking, hoping his companion will follow, heading toward the only hotel in this godforsaken area. He can feel the tension rolling through his own shoulders, the tight grip he has on the grip of his blaster at his hip. Each thought is leading to another and another and another—sharing a room with her and the kid tonight, shuttered in privacy but still not _alone_. He should vouch for his own room, he knows, let her and the kid have their space and get his own. But then he runs the risk of not _being there_ if something were to happen to the two of them—

Mando doesn’t consciously remember entering the hotel with her just behind him, but suddenly he’s at the front desk where a Gran is scrambling to her feet to help. 

“We need to stay overnight while a ship is repaired,” he speaks quickly. “Rooms available?”

The kid babbles to himself while the Gran nods eagerly. “We do have one! With a lovely view of the Spaceport as ships fly in and out—” His fingers curl inward again, tight and firm as the leather crinkles under the move. 

“Another one?” he interrupts. He realizes this must come off pointed and harsh, although he didn’t mean for it to.

“As a hotel that only has forty rooms available, we don’t have much to offer—”

Mando recognizes the shift in her energy at his side as it happens and he has to bite his tongue. He doesn’t want to _upset_ , can tell that’s something he’s potentially done as she sways forward. He thinks it’s because she’s going to jump in and agree, insist on two separate rooms, but she surprises him. For what must be the dozenth time since she joined him back on Nevarro.

“That should be fine,” she assures, stepping forward slightly. “How much?”

Mando cuts his eyes to her under his helmet, drinking in the faux-confident stature she’s suddenly sporting. He knows she’s been watching him, knows she’s stowed away as much information about him as possible with the fact that he’s always concealed by his armor. What she _doesn’t_ know is that he’s done the same with _her_. 

For someone who Cara Dune dubbed a “sweet-talker” and has been called a negotiator, she falters under her own words more often than not. Not in a way that impedes on her abilities or skills, but enough so that she embraces herself in an atmosphere of embarrassment and tongue-biting. He can see the way she bolsters herself with a rigid spine and ground teeth in order to come off as assured and courageous—but it’s not because she _is_ those things. It’s because she doesn’t think she _can_ be those things, so she presents herself with this facade. One that he, unfortunately, has seen right through. 

How to voice this out loud is where he struggles. Mando knows, more than anyone he assumes, how capable she is. How much she can give and deserve. He just notices she doesn’t think those things of herself, regardless of the evidence right in front of her face.

It’s why he let her barter with that seller back in Canto Bight, after all.

Once she’s finished shouldering off the credits to the Gran at the counter for the room, she immediately turns and starts stalking off toward the hallway. He should have protested more, he knows, but already feels the tell-tale signs of anticipation curling at the bottom of his spine. He follows her a few steps back.

The light padding of her footsteps sneak into the sensors of his helmet, the hallway swirling more and more at the edges of his vision. Mando’s not really sure where to go from here, what moves to make, how to fix this—what he could possibly say to release the tension she’s built up in her shoulders all of a sudden.

He follows her into the hotel room, noticing the way she eagerly drinks in the sight of the bed. He can’t help the sharp exhale he gives as they’re shut into the room together, or at the sight of her bundling up a little nest for the kid to rest in. Mando feels even more uncertain standing in his battle-beat plates while surrounded by soft furniture and decor. The swallow in his throat feels thick. He lingers on the edges of the room as he watches her tuck the kid in.

All at once, he feels the need to remove the burden so clearly on her shoulders. One he put there. He says her name, low along the floor of his mouth.

She startles slightly at it, he sees, but she seems to ignore it. Her eyes don’t meet his as she turns away from the kid, practically speeder-walking to the other side of the space. “I’m gonna use the refresher,” she announces, disappearing with a click of the door.

Mando exhales slowly, jaw tightening. 

He remains unmoving for a few slow minutes—that is, until he hears the beating of water against ground as she turns on the cleanser. His eyes squeeze shut. Oh Maker.

Needing something to do, to _distract himself_ , he begins unloading his gear, starting with his ammunition belt and jetpack. He leaves it all in a pile in one corner, breathing heavy through his nose while unholstering his blaster and leaning the rifle against the wall. Next, he goes to the windows and draws the drapes shut, dimming some of the light in the space. That only takes up a few more minutes, still hearing the sounds of her under the water, and he has to clench and unclench his fists a number of times. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders back. He looks over at the kid who is slightly dozing, eyes blinking with a foggy far-off look. 

He decides to make camp on the edge of the bed for now, sitting atop it and trying to relax as much as possible. If his helmet were off he’d be digging the heels of his palms into his eyes to attempt the images his brain is conjuring _out_. 

He never told her this. One morning after he’d landed the Crest at a refueling station near some port, he’d come down the ladder from the cockpit. There, in the hull of the ship near the ramp, she was changing from the larger shirt he noticed she sleeps in into a softer, every day tunic. He’d frozen in place, he remembers, at the sight of her bare back, all smooth skin and long. He then darted into the hidden corner in front of his bunk, hoping she wouldn’t turn and catch him staring. His heart had been pounding in a way it never had before.

Much to his disgust with himself, the memory is burned into the forefront of his mind. When he sees her playing with the kid, he watches her soft hands swing him around. When she’s dozing in the co-pilot’s chair, he sneaks a peek at her slowly parting lips. When they’re all out of the ship to run an errand, he catalogues the swing of her hips, the cadence with which she holds herself.

All because he caught sight of her bare skin when he wasn’t supposed to. 

Fuck, does he hate himself.

Suddenly, the cleanser is turning off. He grits his teeth behind his helmet. The kid makes a very faint cooing noise, almost like a whining snore. This eases some of the strain drifting around him.

When she comes back into the main room, Mando’s heart drops into his stomach seeing her with wet hair tied back, looking refreshed and relaxed. He almost feels undeserving, like it’s not his place to see such an intimate sight. He flexes his hand out on his thigh forceful enough to hurt.

“Do you, uh, do you need to—” she starts.

He nods, once again wanting to say something. Anything. Before he can she’s speaking again, however. “I won’t look,” she tells him, not making direct eye contact, as if his helmet were off now. “I promise. We can—we can figure something out.”

For a reason unclear to him, something bolts through his figure at her sure words. He can’t unpack it now.

“It’s fine,” he gives her instead, realizing he sounds a certain way. “I just—”

The kid makes some sort of ruckus then, distracting her, and he uses it as an opportunity to get up and move into the refresher. As the door shuts behind him he braces his hands on the sinktop, wishing he could take it apart piece by piece. Instead he taps on the cleanser, trying to ignore how she was just in here before him without a lick of clothing on.

Under the hot spray of water, Mando tilts his head back to let it fall down his bare face. He honestly can’t remember the last time he took his time in a cleanser, washing off all the dirt and sweat and blood. He gets so comfortable in the beskar, has let it become a second skin. The idea of taking it off in front of her has only been tempting a handful of times—like when he had let his cloak fall over her just two nights ago on that frostbitten planet, he thought to remove all the metal and burrow under it with her to get warm. It crossed his mind for longer than he’d like to admit. 

He lets out a hiss as the thought, now, strings through him like heat. It settles between his hips, thick and hard.

Before he can stop himself, his hand wraps around the base of his cock. He lies to himself, says he does so just to get some minute relief, but can’t help it when he strokes up once, then down. Rough and quick. 

Colorful images burst behind his shutting eyelids—her, smiling when she doesn’t think he sees after offering her a piece of meat on Colossus. The kid running for her the minute she comes down from the cockpit. His gloves dwarfing her smaller hands. The smell of her hair that he’d only caught once, when she’d backed into him on accident on his small-as-fuck ship, his hands grabbing her shoulders to stop her from further colliding into him. 

He grunts low, realizing he’s been fucking himself into his hand for the past two minutes. Anger hits him in the chest faster than any bullet. 

With a curse he squeezes the grip around his dick hard before ripping his touch away, not wanting to lose himself further. He stops a breath away from punching the wall in front of him, afraid he’ll startle her out in the room, where she can very well hear whatever sound he makes. The water continues running down over him, tracing lines of cold to bring him back to reality. 

He’s done this before. Gotten a hand around his cock while thinking of her, not noticing he has until he’s seconds from finishing. He _can’t_ and he _won’t_ jerk off to her. It’s unfair, crass. He’s betraying the very trust she puts in him to protect her— _employ_ her.

Mando lets out one harsh breath, thinking of blaster residue and Jawas to ease the ache between his legs. After composing himself, he grabs the soap and begins what he came in here to do.

He knows he’s been in the refresher for too long as he’s putting his tunic and trousers back on. He leaves the beskar off, of course, since he’s going to sleep in a bed. _With her_. That thought has hardly crossed his mind as he’s been in here and now he’s throbbing all over again. 

Dank _farrik_.

Upon returning into the main room, helmet on, he’s taken aback seeing her sitting on the far side of the bed with her back to him. She’s pointedly staring at the wall ahead. He exhales loudly without meaning to.

To do something without focusing too much on the sight of her—fuck, he doesn’t have a word for it. _Respecting_ him? Respecting his—Maker, he needs to get a grip. To do something, he starts setting down his other armor, leaving it in the space next to his weapons.

Suddenly, she speaks. “I won’t—”

“I can keep my helmet on,” he interrupts, not wanting to make her twist herself into a set of wires for him. “I’ve slept in it before.”

He raises a brow as she snorts. “I know you have, but—” He can’t see her face as she stops talking, but he pictures her with that pensive look she gets. Mouth slightly open, eyes searching for answers. “I want you to sleep, too. You can’t tell me you get a good night’s rest in that.”

He sucks at his tongue. “You’d be surprised.”

“Mando—”

“It’s fine—”

“You could blindfold me.”

The words sink into him as soon as they find air, knocking him back a full step. Despite his reservation in the shower, intrigue bubbles to the surface. His mouth feels dry. The idea of her blindfolded, lost of a sense while his helmet is off—he has to clench his jaw to stop what starts to twist about inside him. 

Finally, he musters some kind of courage to respond. “What?” he asks, realizing his voice is covered in black sand.

She hesitates, but not for long. “You could—you could blindfold me. That way you can take off your helmet, your gloves, anything. I won’t be able to see and we won’t have to worry about it.”

The fact that she’s offering this, giving _sight_ up for him—he has to think about target practice to dampen the urge rising in him. His fingers are slippery where he’s still holding one of his leg plates to his armor. Without giving it more thought, he nods once even though she can’t see him.

He makes sure to clear his throat this time before answering. “Okay.”

She visibly relaxes. “Okay—”

Mando has already taken hold of his tunic he wears as a second layer, gripping fabric in both hands and ripping along the bottom to create a strip. 

Her hands flutter away from her lap, he sees the movement in his peripherals. “Mando, don’t ruin—”

“It’s fine,” he gruffs back, dropping the tunic onto the ground when he’s finished. “I have more than just one.” 

She doesn’t move as he gets onto the bed, propping onto his knees behind her on the mattress. He hears her give a shuddery breath and his fingers shake as he smooths out the length of the strip he’s made. Then he’s procuring it up above her head and then down, peering around her shoulder to make sure he’s gotten it comfortably over her eyes. He notices the swallow move down her throat. 

He pulls it to the back of her head, not wanting to worry about it fitting too loose, so he tugs it a bit tighter and starts tying it in a knot. Once he’s done he moves back, feeling somewhat in awe of her.

When he notices her unsureness of what to do, body swaying, he lets his hands find her shoulders before he can stop himself. Then he guides her onto her back, helping her head find the pillow.

The sight of her face, the blindfold over her eyes—he has to roll away quickly, clenching his hands harshly once back on his feet. He takes a moment to decide if he’s going to do this, sleep next to her while she’s blindfolded. When he feels more solid he starts tugging off his gloves, dropping them onto the side table. Then, his helmet. It makes an audible noise as it finds a resting place.

Mando returns to the bed, aware of her figure on the other side of it. He lets himself ease as much onto the soft mattress as best he can, yet feels tense and eager for reasons unbeknownst to him.

“Comfortable?” she asks, gentle like a river in her mouth.

“Yes,” he replies.

He watches her teeth clench from her upturned position. If she weren’t blindfolded, she’d be staring right at the ceiling. He shifts next to her, realizing he has freedom to search her face without what usually covers his eyes. Without having to worry of her gaze flitting to him, catching him in the act. He finds himself starting to memorize the slope of her nose, the roundness of her cheekbone. 

“Are you?” he returns as he scans, drinking in the valleys and turns of her expression.

She nods. His gaze has now zeroed in on where her neck meets her jaw, the hook of it and the slender points. Maybe he’s being too brazen, taking too much advantage of this opportunity so dutifully planted in his lap. However—the taste he’s been granted is too heavy and sweet on his tongue. If only he could trace the portrait of her with his finger, embed it in his nerve endings with touch.

The kid snores as she speaks again. He takes note of the way her brows lower. “Mando?” she questions, soft into the air.

“Yes?”

“Are you looking at me?”

He burns with shame. Even with her lack of vision, he’s still so obvious. His throat clears of his own volition and he turns his gaze toward the ceiling much like hers, even though she can’t very well know he’s averted his ridiculous staring. “Yes, sorry,” he tells her, meaning it. 

“It’s okay,” she returns. His heart thunders in his chest, shaking the surface beneath him. 

Suddenly, she’s moving. He looks back in her direction as she rolls onto her side, gently, like she’s afraid to disrupt what’s around her. The air in his lungs deflate seeing her fully facing his way, all easy lines and composed contours. He wonders if comparing her to the stars would be—enough.

As he lays in silence, consuming, his gaze finds a new home at her chest. Resting atop her collarbone is the necklace she had bargained for in Canto Bight. He remembers being confused at her adamance to have _that_ of all things, since it’s nothing more than crimped metal on a chain. Remembering her sharp mouth and stubbornness buries something deep inside him, however. 

Before he can stop himself, his hand reaches out and touches the glinting pendant grazing her skin. She startles and his other hand darts forward to wrap around the dip of her waist, grounding her. Something akin to rocketing warmth hurls through him as his bare hand makes contact with her clothed side, acutely aware that there’s only one thin layer between him and _her_ bare skin.

Maker, keep your thoughts to _yourself_ , Mando.

“Sorry,” he finally scrapes from his useless throat. “I was looking at the necklace.”

Unless he’s mistaken, he would swear on the brightest sun that her breathing deepens. “What about it?” she asks, quiet and curious.

He snatches his hand back like he’s been burned, realizing it’s unnecessary to make his touch linger. He can’t help keeping his other on the necklace though, bringing the charm to rest on his fingertips to inspect it. “Why did you want it?” he wonders aloud.

“It’s from Jakku, for sure,” she tells him, pink lips shaping the words like a storybook. He finds his eyes drift to them next, perplexed by their weight, their color. “My parents are from there.”

This is new. Information, at least. She’s never talked of her past or her upbringing. He’s never thought to ask. Because, well, he—just, doesn't. Do that. Doesn’t ask people where they come from, who they are. He understands wholly how he wants to know. Wants to know these things about her. 

“It’s beautiful,” he gives instead, rather than the swirling monologue building behind his teeth about the inner workings of her. There’s time. He can ask another time, when they’re not beat down from odd travel and broken ships.

“Yeah,” she replies, short and unsure.

He drops the necklace back to where it was on her skin, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. He could almost groan at the sight, something searing through him all over again. To stop those thoughts from cascading again he—

“Thank you,” he tells her, mouth dry again. 

She appears taken aback. “For what?”

“For—for doing this,” he answers, feeling as if his entire self is being drug over hot coals. “For giving me a night without the helmet. It, uh,” he struggles to find the best words, how to show his gratitude, “it speaks worlds into existence.”

Her next works poke at him like a spear. “Every face should be uncovered sometimes, at least for themselves.” There’s no response he can give to match the heft behind the statement. The implications alone take his breath away. He thinks back to being in the cleanser, how he admitted to himself that he’s thought about taking off the beskar around her. Removing his second skin for her to see what’s beneath. She certainly strips him of everything he’s built up—without even intending to.

Without precedence, his hand comes up again, this time to finger along the edge of the blindfold resting against her cheekbone. He follows the cut of it back to her temple, over the curve of her ear. 

“Regardless,” he murmurs, letting his hand fall back to the space between them as her breaths turn rapidly more shallow, “thank you.”

With that, he turns the opposite way, knowing he must get _some_ sleep, even with thoughts of her beside him clouding his mind.

The next morning, he wakes first. He thought to wake her, but found himself watching for a spell first. The blindfold still tucked over her closed eyes, her hair snaked about her shoulders. Parted lips, hand resting on her sternum. The perfect picture of peace. 

Once she rouses, he realizes he should dress so she may be given her sight back to ready for the day. The thought sets a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. Not for any selfish reason but—the cozy, comfortable atmosphere has seeped in and made a home. He doesn’t want that feeling, that _warmth_ to filter out when he takes the blindfold off and he’s concealed away in his armor again. 

As he returns into his familiar outer layer, he watches her. She’s waiting, patiently seated with her back against the headboard until he tells her she can take it off. The trust, the obedience—Jawas, target practice, blaster residue. He can’t let himself fall into that pit inside his brain. Already he’s remembering his hazy dreams from last night, of letting her take him into her soft, hot mouth, eager and _blind_ —

He curls a tight grip around his helmet, gritting his teeth. He cuts into his tongue for a full three seconds before releasing a loud exhale. She shifts her head toward him slightly. 

Maker, _fuck_ , she’s making it hard not to claim her mouth right here and now.

Finally, he jams his head into his helmet, letting the sensors inside kick on and his breath to ease through the modulator. He then pulls on his gloves, keeping his heavy gaze on her. He basks in the sight of her with the blindfold on one last time, hoping to remember the assurance she exuded doing all that she did last night for him. Finally, when he’s ready, he clears his throat.

“You can take it off.”


End file.
